


How I Met Your Father

by subtropicalStenella



Series: SWR: PTAU [9]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Bachelorette Party, Drunk Coeds, F/M, Strip Tease, White Zombie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: Ask from the Rebels PTAU blog:So how did Kanan and Hera meet?(Fixed 2x post, this is the real one)





	How I Met Your Father

E: THEY MET IN A STRIP CLUB

H: No we didn't!

S: KANAN WAS THE STRIPPER

H: _No_ _he wasn't._

E: SHE STUFFED A 50 IN HIS ASS CRACK

H: _No_ _I didn't!_

K: Kids, be nice. It was two 20s and a 10, down the front of my shorts.

H: _KANAN!_

  


\--

(Hera)

  


What  _ actually _ happened was a Night On The Town meant to burn off some steam. Steela was in town and in need of some serious stress relief because her “dumbass brother got his dumb ass arrested a-fucking-gain” and is “gonna get himself fucking court-martialed”.

We… sort of grew up together? Steela babysat me a bit on the dubious authority of being a few years older, she and her brother went Marines while I went Navy but we still get together when we can because once you can both drive, three years isn't much of an age gap.

So we went trawling for the trashiest bar we could possibly find that was doing Ladies Night. Not because we wanted to get wasted--well, okay, we  _ did-- _ but because we wanted to watch drunk coeds get  _ sloppy _ -wasted, and then be smug about how put together our lives were. Sure, we're having a bad day, but at least our drink order isn’t

  


LET'S DO SHOTS BITCHEZZZZZZZZ

LET'S DO

LET'S DO UH…

LET’S DO RUMPLEMINTZ AND JAGERMEISTER AND GOLDSCHLAGER AND… AND…

OH OH AND FIREBALL!!

WOOOOOOO FIREBALL

  


Good times.

  


And hot damn did we luck out. One, it's Ladies Night, two, there's a  _ bachelorette party _ . Penis accessories and sparkly crowns and lots of pink and dangerously high heels and a sash that says LAST CHANCE, BOYS. 

  


So obviously we know where we're sitting: the other side of their corner of the bar.

  


There's three bartenders, fairly forgettable blond guy, tiny butch chick handling the majority of the customers and--

  


AND THIS MAYBE-LATINO CHARLES VANE-LOOKING MOTHERFUCKER

… as Steela would call him years later, after she became obsessed with some pirate show. Before that it was “Human Sinnamon Roll” and she deliberately emphasized the S. Like, wrote it down, because “brown, delicious, and you want to lick frosting off him.” Despite the fact that she doesn't even do men, she can, however, “appreciate art.”

  


\--who apparently drew the Short Straw on dealing with the bachelorettes.

He's doing a surprisingly good job, all told. All cheeky smiles and sunshine and bright green eyes as he chats them up, slinging drinks. Actually doing tricks too, flipping bottles over and around his hands, behind his back, back-and-forth with either and both the other bartenders when they have free hands. Pouring shots directly into mouths, juggling glasses and limes. Chatting the girls up, too, which is apparently necessary because The Bride is  _ complaining _ , whining about what her future sister-in-law had planned being TOTALLY BORING 

  


LIKE, IT'S MY LAST NIGHT AS A FREE WOMAN YOU KNOW (shot)

(Which is a great attitude to go into a marriage with)

AND SHE WANTS TO LIKE, GO OUT TO DINNER (shot) 

AND LIKE, REGULAR DANCING (shot) 

I WANTED A PARTY BUS (shot)

  


He lines up another row of tequila shooters, apparently having managed to talk them out of a drink selection that mostly consisted of “tastes like Christmas and vomit” and keeps her talking, keeps her attention on him.

We can barely hear over the excited hyena-chorus of WOOOOOOO-ing as that round goes down in a hurry, but he's saying something like, “Stay with me, sweetheart, I got this, alright?”

And then he turns and  _ winks  _ at one of the girls, who has the kind of fake smile that says “I really don't want to be here and everything is ruined and stupid.” $30 said it was the sister-in-law, who perks up a little. Cute.

  


“Come on now, you can't say you aren't having a little fun--”

WELL YEAH, NOW (shot)

COS YOU (shot) 

THEY DIDN'T EVEN GET ME A STRIPPER

  


Sister-in-law ROLLS her eyes, and the bartender looks mock-scandalized. “No! On your--”

LAST NIGHT AS A FREE WOMAN, I  _ KNOW _ RIGHT (shot)

This must be her phrase of the evening because they said it in chorus. He follows up with “A damned shame.”

Probably for good reason, SIL might have saved the wedding at this rate.

  


YOU SHOULD BE MY STRIPPER

  


Haha WHAT

Steela snorts half her whiskey sour out her nose.

SIL looks horrified and embarrassed.

The Bride is banging her hands on the bartop. 

  


BE MY STRIPPER

BE MY STRIPPER

BE MY STRIPPER

  


The bartender is cracking up with us, shaking his head, backing down, and now The Bride is WHINING

  


PLEASE PRETTY PLEASE

  


And Steela, who is a chaos-enabling _monster_ , holds up a fistful of twenties from her wallet.

  


“HONEY I GOT SIXTY BUCKS RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW IF YOU GET UP ON THAT BAR AND GET YOUR SHIRT OFF!” 

  


And now he turns to us, Steela first, then me, for some reason* and asks “You sure? Ain't gonna be pretty, and I'm no pro.” over:

  * Another hyena-chorus
  * Blond Bartender yelling “BullSHIT you ain't!”
  * The opening riffs + pornographic moaning/sighing of White Zombie's _More Human Than Human_
  * And STEELA, who I will never forgive for this, shouting “HUNDRED AND TEN” while grabbing me, and pulling me over sideways to shove her hand down the front of my shirt and pull _my_ emergency-cash out of my bra.



He gives an exaggerated, full-body sigh… and sweeps all the shot glasses off a three foot section to either side, planting both hands on the bartop and hoisting himself up in a motion that is entirely too smooth not to be practiced. 

  


… oh, yeah. He's done this before. 

  


Sure he's  _ playing _ at being shy: all bashful, aw-shucks-ma’am charm, but he's actually dancing, dead on rhythm in his rolling hips and stomping boots (standing on a slippery bartop in battered cowboy boots, that takes some stupid courage), running his hands up and down his chest and flat stomach, teasing at lifting the bottom hem of his shirt every now and then. There's a tattoo under there, and knifeblade hipbones and a dark treasure trail, but we don't get to see more until someone else reaches up with a five and shoves it into the tear in his jeans on his upper thigh, which is as high as anyone can reach because  _ fuck _ he's tall.

That gets him to drop to his splayed knees--right on beat--and pull the front of his shirt up his chest. His balance or core strength is enough that he can bend over backwards and reach under the bar for a bottle of--fuck what is that? Tequila again? Sure.

Dunno what the fuck he's talking about,  _ “not going to be pretty,”  _ because  _ abs abs abs _ that were cut out of an underwear advertisement that hadn't required him to wax are getting him plenty of singles and a few fives even shoved in his pockets and the waistband of his tight, worn-out jeans. 

  


Who even carries that much cash anymore?

  


Couple of shots poured directly into The Bride and Bride’s Bestie’s mouths and one for himself--is this actually going to be a setup for bodyshots? The shirt is going to have to come off for that, but right now he's just holding the hem in his teeth and letting girls run their hands up his--nicely muscled--thighs and bare stomach on pretense of shoving money in his waistband while he grins sideways at us**

  


Oh fuck everything, that's why.

Steela hasn't paid him.

Fuck it. 

  


I grab Steela's cash, my cash and his front pocket, pull him a little closer our way, and shove the whole fistful right down the front of his jeans into his shorts, adding to whatever he obviously had stuffed down there because there was  _ no  _ way he's real***

He laughs, and the shirt comes off, pulled up by the back of his collar in a smooth showy motion of flexed stomach and chest and arms. He flings the shirt to one side, and I see Tiny Butch Bartender expertly catch it and stuff it under the bar before going back to her customers.

  


My attention is brought back to more important things by more squealing and WOOOOOO-ing, because he's pulled his hair tie out and shaken his  shoulder-length ponytail out shampoo-commercial style.

  


There's more than  _ a  _ tattoo. Something on his hip I can't read from this angle mostly hidden by his pants and crumpled cash, some kind of three-pronged trident thing on the cap of one shoulder, something else on his forearm. A few more, but I was a bit distracted by 

  1. Nipple ring (left side)
  2. Bullet holes.



Old ones, scarred up. One in his shoulder, the other in the opposite hip. Sizeable entry points,  _ big  _ exit wounds. He's been shot twice, through-and-through, with something nastily high caliber. Who  _ is  _ this guy? Is that what he meant by 'not pretty’?

Guys like him--cocky, reckless, arrogant, full of himself and just out for a good time--would be proud of those scars, show them off at any opportunity. He would be using them to pick up these girls, talking himself up as a badass. It's… interesting, and The Bride is  _ whining _ again, a long drawn out  _ awwwwwWWWWW  _ because he jumped up to his feet, out of her reach.

And he was entirely justified in doing so, because The Bride has gotten entirely too handsy and 1) actually got a hand on his crotch via 2) using that tear in his thigh like a handle to grab him and thus 3) literally starting to tear his clothes off. Oh hell, that's too much.

He plays it off, shaking his head No, but he stays standing as the song winds down and bridges into another, some poppy girl-power anthem that has one of the bridesmaids screaming OH MY GOD CECILE THIS IS MY JAM and dragging The Bride off onto the tiny dance floor at a drunken gallop.

Blond Guy gives him a hand down from the bar, and hands him his shirt back. Steela gives me a look that says “We are so leaving like, 200% tip, ugh” while he pulls it on, ties his hair back up.

  


“I feel like we should apologize for that.”

He smiles, tilts his head at me. “Might be easier somewhere quiet. Smoke break?”

Ew. “I don't smoke.” 

“Me either,” he says, and vaults over the bartop again.

Steela grins into her drink and holds up her credit card. “Here's mine.”

He gives her a sloppy salute and pulls the wad of ones and fives out of the tear in his jeans, shoves it into his pocket with his hands, headed out a side door. Steela pushes me right off my barstool after him.

  


It's cool outside, especially after the heat and sweat and closeness of the bar. He's leaning against a clean stretch of wall, thumbing through his earnings, and I have no idea what to say.

  


“Hell of a collection you got there,” is the first thing that falls out of my mouth. 

He fans the stack out with a grin. “Not a bad night, no.” 

Naturally I dig the hole deeper with, “I meant these,” as I reach out and flick a fingernail lightly over the hole in his shoulder.

He huffs a quiet chuckle and shoves his hands and a tidy, sizeable roll of cash into his pockets. 

“Nice, right? First and worst, all at once.” 

“Yikes.” 

“Lost the kidney, too.”

_ “Yikes.” _

“Could tell you about it, but I'd have to kill you.”

  


There's something he finds very internally funny about that, and I can't help teasing back.

  


“Ooh, are we a badass or just a bad boy?”

“I can be good,” he says, and it comes out on a low, lazy drawl, almost a purr. 

  


Unfortunately before I can say anything about  _ that,   _  that side door swings open again and Blondy sticks his head out. “Need a hand in here, Jarrus!”

“Kinda busy, Jake!”

“So’re we, suck it up.” 

  


Jarrus (last name?) sighs and makes sort of an  _ After You _ gesture back inside. 

  


Steela grabs me by the arm and hauls me out onto the dancefloor as soon as I get inside, because now they're playing  _ her  _ jam, and I hear Jarrus yelling after me, 

  


“Wait! What's your name?!”

I yell it back at him, because hey, why not. Maybe I'll add my number after a few more drinks.

  


\---

H: So there. Not a stripper. Barely even qualified as  _Coyote Ugly,_ let alone stripping.

E: ... Coyote WHAT?

K: Holy fuck we're old.

\---

*Because she was pointing frantically at the top of my head mouthing FOR HER! SINGLE! NOT CRAZY! and so on, where I couldn't see.

**Me

***He is. Didn't find out until later, because I have  _ manners _ but… yeah.


End file.
